


One Last Time

by OrionLady



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Grieving, Humanity, Rivals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 20:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionLady/pseuds/OrionLady
Summary: Valjean is not sure why he is in a graveyard, of all places. And on Cosette’s wedding, of all days. But that is a lie. Valjean knows he owes a stony police chief, his brother, an apology. One last time.





	One Last Time

**Author's Note:**

> My theory on what Jean Valjean was doing before his daughter's wedding.

He hobbled through the spring frost with surprising grace. A crème robe hung about his pale frame. The dewy eyes were fixed ahead, but brows spread wide, as though surprised.

Which…he truly was, his shock a perpetual state since last week’s conversation:

_“Died? What—how?”_

_“Monsieur.” The new police chief shifted on his boots, a twitch in his robust mustache. “A mortal sin, I’m afraid. Found his body on the river bank not two hours ago. Thought you should be informed.”_

_Valjean drew back. Despite the officer’s lowered tone, the words echoed between the monsieur’s ears, a thunderclap._

_“But surely…”_

_“It’s true, sir,” said the chief. “He jumped.”_

_The officer adjusted his hat under his arm and shuffled, suddenly embarrassed for a reason Valjean couldn’t fathom. _

_“Good day, monsieur,” said the officer._

Valjean couldn’t recall his response. He walked in a daze now, breath powder swirls in the early dawn light. The object of his intense focus was a white stone like countless others. A mound of fresh soil, crackled by cold, was heaped before it.

His hands tightened around a paper parcel.

A layman coming to a layman’s grave.

Quivering, rippled with emotion, Valjean’s jaw stiffened and he came to a stop.

“Javert,” Valjean said the name one last time. “We are both old men, you and I.”

He bowed his head and a husky wail steamed into the air. “Why, Good Father? Why him and not me? What worth lies in my heart that was not accounted to him?”

Not but the birds answered. Valjean covered his eyes with a shaking hand. He set the other on Javert’s tombstone. No mourners came but him, no memorial service but a frail man’s weary heart.

“Had I known,” he whispered. “That night in the alley, the barricade, I would have…I…I…”

Valjean’s heart wrung out with a wet gasp.

“Of all my crimes,” said Valjean, “you are the greatest.”

Then he straightened his back. Something crisp and pure filled his nostrils, so otherworldly that his eyes watered. “And yet, of all my spirit’s deepest reservoirs of admiration…you were also…you…”

Valjean’s lips pursed. He could not finish. With gentle fingers, he unwrapped the pair of single stem roses in much the same manner one would a baby. Both were laid on the grave stone, yellow petals brushing the white like a kiss.

Ancient as the Seine and at once a young man again, Valjean felt he had arrived full circle. Time no longer mattered. He was a father, but here, in this moment, it was just he and Javert.

And Valjean was alone.

Connected by a gossamer thread their whole lives, Valjean only realized its tugging now because it was absent. Only the two men understood each other, the isolation that comes from seeing into the depths of both Heaven and Hell.

If Valjean closed his eyes, he could sense the rough paw on his shoulder. Only, he no longer feared the touch, for it was almost tender. The thread tugged, one last time.

“Dear brother,” Valjean breathed. “You will not be there with me. In that glorious place.”

Clear, refracting such an intense golden light it would have stung an onlooker’s eye, a single tear slid off Valjean’s cheek and onto the roses. It was his first real cry since leaving the prison.

It was also his last.

Valjean wondered at the fact that he was alone. Here, on his daughter’s wedding day. When he turned and walked away, it was as if he aged two decades in a single breath. White crowned his features, stark against his red rimmed eyes.

And in a way he was already one of the alabaster stones.

Fog sighed off the earth in Valjean’s tracks. He trekked through the graveyard with solemn patience. A priest marked for death among the dead.

High above, though sun slanted across the cloudless sky, one last star refused to fade. It remained, stubborn, even when noon peaked. Cosette and Marius raced to her father’s side, still in wedding garb.

The tears on their faces changed from joy to the heavy drops of sorrow. Cosette knelt beside her father.

And Valjean’s spirit bowed. The star kept a silent vigil until M. Jean Valjean closed his eyes.

One last time.

**Author's Note:**

> Written April 2016.


End file.
